


When Nothing Moves Again

by KelpietheThundergod



Series: Eating The Stars [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Dean Winchester, Episode: s10e01 Black, Episode: s10e02 Reichenbach, Gen, M/M, Season/Series 10, implied Demon Dean/Original Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 18:27:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3738886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpietheThundergod/pseuds/KelpietheThundergod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bar is nowhere and the name is black.</p><p>There are people, in and out. He wonders what they look like inside. A light trapped under rivers of red, and bones like yellow prison bars. Maybe. He just wonders, vaguely. If it's anything like what he must look inside. Because it feels empty inside. He thinks, maybe that feels good. He likes feeling good. He's like a black hole eating the stars. It's natural. It all disappears somewhere inside, the drinks and the touches and the nights he sleeps but never dreams. He guesses that last is proof. That it's really all gone now. Finally there is nothing more to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Nothing Moves Again

 

 

 

**_when nothing moves again_ **

_and again and kiss me_

_give it_

 

_night_

 

 

 

The bar is nowhere and the name is black.

 

There are people, in and out. He wonders what they look like inside. A light trapped under rivers of red, and bones like yellow prison bars. Maybe. He just wonders, vaguely. If it's anything like what he must look inside. Because it feels empty inside. He thinks, maybe that feels good. He likes feeling good. He's like a black hole eating the stars. It's natural. It all disappears somewhere inside, the drinks and the touches and the nights he sleeps but never dreams. He guesses that last is proof. That it's really all gone now. Finally there is nothing more to him.

 

“ – hey! You even listening?” He really isn't. What is there to listen for? Plans and futures are confining and meaningless. He prefers the music, buzzing and breathy. The lyrics mean nothing to him, but he thinks he likes singing them. Likes doing something that don't mean anything.

 

Mean anything. No one means no thing to him.

 

>

 

He's dragged from the stage, falls onto some bed. He doesn't care. He will be given another night, an endless stretch of nights. He smirks. It amuses him how they can't do a thing about it. Couldn't move him, if he refused. If he wants, he'll not be dragged an inch. His edges are sharper than cut glass. There is nothing to hurt. If he wants, no one's ever touching him again.

 

He lies there, drowsy and still. Sleeping is nice. He can just sleep, as long as he wants, and nothing can attack him there anymore. He lies in the bed, and he thinks about being touched. There are flowers on the bedspread. They look strange. He doesn't know why he thinks that.

 

There is this feeling sometimes. Like his bones are hollow. They are not – he is damn near indestructible. There is nothing he has to do anymore. There is no place and no thing to care about anymore. He smoothes a hand over the flowers. He either has the Blade in his hands or a drink. Or not anything at all. Maybe his skin feels less. Maybe the spaces between his fingers are wider now.

 

The bed dips, and there is the warmth, and someone else's skin. Weight over his body pressing down and a mouth kissing his throat, gentle. He's asked, and he touches back in reply. He thinks he smiles. He remembers only what a smile looks like.

 

>

 

Warmth is still there, the next morning. But asleep. He rubs his face and rolls onto his side, towards the window. The curtains are blue and faded, ragged edges thinning out. Sunbeams fall across the bed. He reaches out a hand, watches the play of the sunlight on his skin. He moves his fingers, his wrist. Watches how the light _moves_ , how the color of his skin changes with it.

 

He likes it. It makes the hollow feeling worse and less. It puzzles him. Maybe he has to kill again. He's not really interested. Demons are stupid, and easy to kill, and annoying. They don't make him particularly angry. They don't make him feel better. He'd rather feel better.

 

Behind him, there is movement, the rustle of fabric. He feels the warmth come closer and hover over him, curious. He doesn't look. Moves his fingers like a wave, watches the light move with it. There is a pause, and then an amused snort, “You really are a strange one.”

 

>

 

There is rain when he drives away. He doesn't like it. Long black road is what they sang, and that is how it should be. How it's gonna be. He has his road. He will never stop again. He will never let them make him stop again. His future and his past, his wrongs and his wronger wrongs. Finally it does not mean a thing anymore. He has found the place without a pain, and he will not be dragged away from it.

 

He might not feel it, but he can remember. The acid burning hole in his guts, the terror in his head. His heart used to be so heavy. He'd have to cut his chest open now to see if it still even is where it used to be.

 

He has his road, and there is no thing to hold him back, to hold him down. Maybe he just has to drive for longer. Until he doesn't recognize anything. Night at one place, next night somewhere else. And sleep the days away. Make the time when nothing moves and no light makes nothing move go by without him. Maybe then he'll even forget the memory of pain and prisons.

 

>

 

He plays the notes. But he doesn't sing them. They don't mean the same. Or maybe they do, but he doesn't mean the same. He wonders, again. Tries it out, and there is a river of red in his hand. And then it's gone. He is gone. He will not go back again. He will never sing this song again. He feels hollow for it, but it's for the better. The place where it came from was a horrible place. It hurt bad. He is free now, to never go back there again.

 

They don't understand, not yet. He doesn't care what they do. As long as they leave him here. There is no “home” if you are free. He remembers home. Remembers how empty it was. His home are these bones now, hollow as they are. They talk and don't understand and he drinks and smiles, because he doesn't feel a thing.

 

>

 

The next time warmth touches him, it's to beat him into the ground. It's to kill him. He laughs, and he laughs. There is nothing to take, nothing to hurt. They should know, they all should know.

 

And then the chains, then the anger.

 

No night, and he's held down against his will. He tries to move and nothing moves. The light is trapped again.


End file.
